Muffins, McDonald's and Murder
by Cupcakesandpandas
Summary: What the hell do these things have in common aside from the initial letter you ask? Well, frankly, they all revolve around Oliver Kirkland, the lovely, murderous 2P!England, who just happens to be having a wonderful time on vacation until a disruptive Al barges into his story line and gets them both into trouble! Rated M for language, some gore and definitely smut at the end. UvU
1. Chapter 1

As Oliver bit into his chocolate muffin, staring out at the bright blue sky which beautifully collided with the Mediterranean sea that stretched out before his eyes, he tried to rest his tired mind with the breathtaking sunrise that seemed solely for him.

Turning away to take a look at the sweet he held in his hand, he lazily let the thoughts flood his brain.

By golly, seven hours straight of driving had been so very tiring, especially since he'd forgotten his emergency sweets pack… And of all places, only McDonald's was open at this time, but he acknowledged that settling for a muffin like this was the only way to get the sugar flowing again.

Wishing he were back home, he also regretted ever leaving his beloved kitchen in England! His poor teacups must have been so lonely up there in the cupboard...

Slightly pouting as he pondered his kitchenware, he was suddenly shaken back into reality by the enormous racket that came from further down the street…

Large, red banners with the well-known yellow M crossed out by a thick line of sloppy black paint, signs with an ironic "I'm not lovin' it" were crowding the French Riviera, held up by the swarm of furious protesters that was quickly making its way to the fast food restaurant Oliver had just sat down at.

As he squinted his eyes to observe the unruly crowd which angrily approached, he spotted the leader; a tall, chocolate brown haired man sporting a pair of sunglasses that perfectly matched that cocoa shade.

A worn out bomber jacket hugged his figure deliciously, showcasing broad shoulders and some well-defined biceps, along with a pair of blue denim trousers that just looked so damn perfect on him… Oliver blushed slightly, wondering what train of thought had brought him to _those_ conclusions.

Closing in further, the Englishman could finally hear the general outbursts, although he'd immediately concentrated on the man who led the whole party and seemed to be crying out loudest of them all…

"Come on, people! We're here to get those motherfucking McDickheads to give in to our demands! Those goddamned little shits can't stop us, am I right?!"

The crowd literally seemed to drink in every last word the leader snarled, enthusiastically shouting their approval in return and stomping their feet to the ground to further emphasize the excitement that was building up in every last protester's chest.

Oliver watched them get closer and closer, staring intently at the handsome brute who led the way, blinking away the dreamy gaze in his eyes as the man stood proudly in front of the restaurant, just a few steps from him…

He happily got up and skipped towards the leader, lightly tapping his shoulder to get his attention; as the other turned around, glaring venomously at the far too elegantly dressed Oliver, his heart skipped a beat and he'd almost lost the courage to actually speak.

"H-hello there, might I ask what exactl-"

"What the _fuck_ do you want, ya limey fag?"

Struck by the rude response the man, who seemed to have a rich American accent and a deep-rooted hatred for the English, had given him, Oliver narrowed his eyes and turned away immediately, regretting ever thinking about that boorish, crude young man who'd also appeared far too enticing in his tight denim…

He quickly slapped himself mentally, just as the American had decided to do the same to his shoulder.

"Hey, listen, I was just playin' around, don't gotta be all that sensitive about it, dude. So you in this with us? The protest I mean. It's all us vegans an' shit against those McDonald's assholes. They don't stand a chance."

Furrowing his thick, blond eyebrows, Oliver had barely had a chance to utter a "Well,…" before the American sat himself down at what previously had been his chair, continuing his uncouth monologue.

"Alright then, we got another supporter. Fuckin' awesome, man. Oh yeah, I'm Al, an' who are you s'posed to be?"

Oliver straightened his blue bowtie, cleared his throat and cheerfully spoke up, reaching his hand out for a handshake.

"I'm Oliver, very nice to meet you, dear!"

Al frowned in distaste, grabbing the man's hand gingerly and immediately producing a grimace that was supposed to appear as some kind of smile.

"Right… So uh, Oliver, you heard what this was all about yet?"

The young Briton shook his head and pursed his lips, signalling for the other the go on.

"Basic'lly one guy found some shitty horse meat in his muffin, kinda like that one ya… Got… Right there.."

If the blanching on Al's face followed by a furious expression was any indication, Oliver had just completely lost the man's trust.

Lovely.

"Fuck, dude! You sit out here all willy nilly and I think you're protesting _with us, _an' instead you're actually supporting these douchebags! You gotta be frickin' kidding me, I mean what kinda game are you playing?! Just—

"Pardon, but you're th—"

"Just get outta my fuckin' sight!"

The Brit's eye twitched almost imperceptibly.

_Count to ten, Ollie, he's nothing but a small annoyance. _

"Hey, you even listenin'? I told you to move your ass, kid."

Nostrils flaring and bottom lip getting mercilessly bitten.

_Keep calm, dearest. Don't let anger seep through your demeanour._

"Dammit, would ya leave?"

Teeth gritting, nails digging into his palms.

"Last fucking time I'm saying it. _**Move**_."

"No."

The edgy response hung between them, challenging the American to return his attention to Oliver.

"The _fuck_ did you just say?"

"I said no, you pissy American."

Al turned around slowly, swivelling his hips and stretching his back menacingly to show the other just who he'd messed with. _You'd better be ready for an ass whoopin', kid._

His intentions died then and there, along with his words. Pink and blue swirling irises bore holes into him; they were distractingly colourful and bubbly, almost fairytale-like. You couldn't tell whether you were staring into cotton candy, with those fluffy and comforting pastel tones, or a man's eyes. There was some kind of underlying danger, but Al just gawked back with the same intensity, unable to sense it. Swallowing dryly, Adam's apple bobbing, throat tightening with each passing moment of that exchange of gazes, the American inhaled heavily to repress the threatening landslide of thoughts.

"Are you by any chance going to say something coherent instead of grunting in my face? Or is that your habitual speech pattern, love?"

Those eyes hypnotised him, rendered him useless, like a puppet on a string. As though a sort of sinister magic trapped him in its grasp, left his mouth agape and diminished the bravado he'd shown up till few moments ago. It was the dark attraction of Oliver's spinning orbs that numbed his brain.

There was no reflection upon them, just a whirlpool of bright tints which sucked him in and softly whispered to him…

_Come closer. Yes dear, closer. _

Al nodded, unaware of how alarmingly small the distance between them was becoming, and of the fact that Oliver was brandishing a pocket knife, pointing it straight at his jugular.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

_Blood, your crimson blood will soon taint this blade. It shall stream down your throat as I prick your skin, dig the tip further into the supple dermis and tear a beautiful, fatal gash from your jaw line to your collarbone. Have you ever witnessed the splendour of something dying, a body heaving its last breaths and clinging desperately onto the last fragments of energy to stay alive? Some say that killing contaminates you, infects your soul and brings you to an agonizing downfall. But such words define depraved beings, those who kill simply as a necessity or as a means to rid their life of unwanted presences. I am no such man, make no mistake. _

Words echoed off the walls of Oliver's fragile mind. They rang back and forth, ghosting around, struggling to find sense in their entirety. "_Dead, he's dead…", _someone screamed in the distance.

It trickled down his hand, touched his lips and stained them. It soaked his shirt. It had an exquisite taste, a sharp smell. _Blood._

Murmurs beneath him, asking for mercy; a kick to the knife buried in his stomach, gurgling and a final choking sound.

_Disgusting mongrel, why would you ever beg to keep your life? Don't you understand how gorgeous you are with slashed veins? _Once again,_ blood._

Insanity, cruelty, senseless violence, apathy and beastly hunger for gore. No, he wasn't talking about himself, he referred to the "victims", the mere animals he'd chosen to execute.

He could hear their cries, their appalled shrieks, the shallow pants moments before his hand would give a little jerk, and then the metal sank into skin, tore through muscle. Silence would replace all of that clamor. Silence is the loudest scream, though.

…

When had this all started? Why had this chain of brutal slaying started? Oliver didn't know, nor did he care. He didn't remember any of the homicides he'd committed either. Blurry half-recollections of the disputes were all he had; out of nowhere he'd find himself back home, unable to recall anything else.

When he attempted to reminisce, the most he would get was the sound of far-off, childlike wailing. Sometimes shreds of a conversation would rebound in his thoughts, so distressed and vulnerable on one end, detached and repetitive on the other.

"Please, no, it wasn't my fault! The knife… Poison… Not _me_!"

"Shut up. Your brother… You killed-"

"It's not bloody true! NO! Stop blaming me! Why would I-"

"Shut your trap, I said! Arthur's dead and you killed him! ...Only Hell for the likes of you, demon."

…No. Why..? Arthur, such a familiar name; it hurt his chest to pronounce it. Who killed him..? The demon? But its voice was young, even babyish.

As usual, these reflections were cast off to a forgotten corner of Oliver's mind, waiting for some kind of resolution.

Another shattered nook of his brain kept track of the current situation, the folly that held him captive almost reaching its peak.

Was his life an illusion? A beautiful lie that kept him from peering at the horrendous truth of his psychotic reactions?

He grinned and narrowed his eyes to slits.

_Oh Olly, you're an extremely naïve one, aren't you?_

_Of course you aren't a murderer, now why would you think that? You're holding a switchblade to this lovely man's throat, you say? Preposterous- you'd never act so belligerently. _

_Now, now, keep quiet and cover your eyes, this won't hurt you as much as it hurts him, trust me._

"Are you by any chance going to say something coherent instead of grunting in my face? Or is that your habitual speech pattern, love?"

Faint, spellbound nods assented to his request. _Come closer, yes…_

With the press of a button, he was poised to strike- these "games" had become so easy once Oliver had realized his enchantment's true potential. Far too easy.

The act itself wasn't boring, yet the foreplay which led to it had become dreary and unexciting, compared to the erotic elation that characterized the first experiences.

_Let's play with this vicious kitten, let's. I'll leave him to you, love. Have fun…_

His eyes slipped shut: Oliver regained consciousness, stunned at the sight of a knife in _his_ hand pressed flat against the American's neck; Al blinked aghast and basically lost his shit.

Trembling, on the verge of tears, the Englishman lost his hold on the blade and let it clatter to the floor.

"…What the fuck just happened?"

Al was petrified, he'd never been this close to death. Not when he and his stepbrother had almost beat each other senseless with hockey sticks and baseball bats, not when that sadistic, shit-faced Russian guy had punched him square in the jaw and he'd had to spit out a bloody, perfect tooth of his.

Apparently, there's a first time for everything, huh?

"I-I don't… Goodness, I- I just don't know what came over m—"

"Save it, you're psycho."

Tears spilled over the thin rim of Oliver's eyes and his lips crumpled into a heartrending grimace.

"Hey, whoa, don't give me that look! I didn't say psycho was a bad thing, right? C'mon, dude, you can't—"

"WAHHHHH"

Dealing with a sobbing, blubbering grown man was not going to be fun. Fuck.


End file.
